“Aunt Carol, what’s that?” I asked as I carefully examined her plate. It was a stormy evening outside, but inside Ponzio’s it felt warm and fuzzy.

She whispered into my soft ear, “Chicken pot pie.” It was magical, it was sensational, it was as delicate as a butterfly’s wing. She spooned me a lump of what looked at the time like a mountain of broth. I embraced the smell that tickled my nose and plummeted down into my stomach, like a rapid waterfall splashing down onto the drenched, mossy rock.

“I will never forget that moment,” I confide to my father. We sit famished at the Ponzio’s counter drinking our waters with lemon, trying to watch the time fly by. It’s noisy and crowded at Ponzio’s tonight. I slump, and I slouch, waiting for my chicken pot pie to arrive. I watch Rachel, my sister, who deliberately slurps her soup. As I wait, I focus on the water drops on my glass as they glide down like droplets on a raincoat.

As I clench my spoon in midair, the scent hugs my nose, and it draws me closer to heaven. As I close my eyes, I dream of warmness, and kindness, and everything around me seems to float around, closing their eyes too. I devour my first bite. Suddenly, I’m lapping up the creamy broth. I cut up the carrots and smash them into my face. I’m swooning; and I feel tingly all over.

Then my dad stands up; he catches my eye and signals it’s time to depart. From the outside I appear full and cheerful. But inside, I cry. I don’t want to leave this pool of luscious ingredients! My father takes my hesitant hand, and we start for the car. As we start pulling away, I thank my dad for the delicious dinner. He smiles, but continues to drive. I press both hands to the window, looking at the midnight sky, licking off the excess crust on my left cheek. And as I take my last glimpse of the sky, I see my Aunt Carol, motioning for me to come back next Thursday.